The Master Plan

Chapter 14: Beware Witches Who Come Bearing Pamphlets, For They Are Subtle and Quick to Anger

Harry put off talking with Hermione for a few days, thinking that maybe if he avoided it, everything that had been bothering him lately would just sort of...go away, and he wouldn't have to deal with it. For a little while, this even seemed to work. Harry concentrated on schoolwork-- all of it, not just the subjects he liked, played and practiced Quidditch like an absolute maniac--to the point where he was completely exhausted at night--and tried to resolutely think of Snape as someone else. Or of Snape wearing a hat with a stuffed vulture on top. That helped. He resolved not to look Snape in the eyes during classes, not to follow him with his eyes as the man swept magnificently past in his stark black robes, and not to hear the dangerous honey of the man's voice, but concentrate solely on the words being spoken.

The next night, Snape started practical lessons. They were all required to dress in casual-wear, because, as Snape said, 'We cannot trust Mister Potter's ability to tell the difference between his suitors' robes and his own, and in any case it would be best you all dress in more practical clothing.' Of course, when Harry showed up dressed in Dudley's old jeans and a sweater Mrs. Weasley had made for him, Snape told Ron that he was going to have to start laying Harry's clothes out on his bed in the mornings, to be sure he got into the right ones. Ron and Hermione were, at least, dressed casually as well...but Snape had worn black dragon-hide trousers, a high-necked, black silk shirt and a black leather jacket. The black, Harry felt, was unsurprising. It was practically a Slytherin colour on it's own. But the man wore them with a heedless, casual grace that left Harry stunned.

Snape took them out into the forest at night, where he had a roped-off area prepared for their use. It had to be both close to and yet far from the castle, he'd explained, in order that it should be protected from Voldemort, but at the same time could not be seen by Hagrid or the others who might report them. Harry had had to fight down a momentary, heady joy that Snape would go this far, would risk so much wrath on both sides simply for them. Harry'd had to calm himself down, and tell himself that Snape had, in the past, risked far more than a jaunt in the Forbidden Forest would get him. Then Snape had made them go through drills; intense, laborious drills that wore them down and made them wary. He had them aim mild hexes at each other; seek each other out in the darkness and the unpredictable terrain. He followed them and hexed them and came out of nowhere and used Legilimency on them. Some nights it was like a terrifying game of hide and seek--he had them learn to hide, to lurk, to prowl. All the while Snape trailed after them, moving smoothly and silently himself; hunting them down, one by one, and throwing rougher curses at them than he'd let them cast on each other. He caught them and yelled at them and told them what they did wrong, and how to do it better. He could be an absolute slave-master, and Harry enjoyed it, and tried to ignore that squirming happiness in his stomach. And it was only Snape, anyway.

Harry was convinced it was somehow Snape's fault. Certainly Harry never would have had thoughts like he was having, or feelings that kept suddenly looming up in his heart--like icebergs in a cloudy sea--about anyone else. Harry was certain. Still, Harry was determined not to notice, so he kept his head straight ahead and eyes focused on the distance whenever Snape passed by. For a little while, it seemed to work. Harry convinced himself that Severus Snape had some kind of diabolical allure, and that, left alone, Harry never would have looked at him that way--would never have thought of any man in that way. For two whole days, life was completely normal--or as normal as it could be, for the Boy Who Lived. Harry spent every school day doing the exact same things his peers were doing, which made him feel ordinary, and almost as though he fit in, and in the evenings, Harry was learning to dodge curses in a way that only a Master Death Eater could teach him. For two whole days, he managed to ignore Snape, and convince himself everything was totally ordinary. Then came the third day, or rather the third evening. Harry and the other Gryffindors had been taking a late Quidditch practice, and the Slytherins, jeering and moaning, had had to give up the field for their use. Harry, having to make Snape's class, had been forced to beg off early, and headed on his own for the locker rooms....

He couldn't say, later, whose voices he heard. He only knew that, because the Slytherins had just given up the field, they were presumably Slytherin, and that they were male. He also noticed that they were exceptionally... eager, in an unmistakably sexual way. This hardly would have surprised Harry; the things you heard about what the Slytherins got up to in their house parties! No, what bothered Harry was that he was...undeniably aroused. He'd actually stood and listened for a few moments, before wandering off, red-faced and confused. The only shower he took that night was a cold one, and he knew that it could never make him feel clean. Harry struggled with the realization that, once again, he was different.

The next night he asked to speak to Hermione alone. He just couldn't stand it any more, all these questions and fears and desires bottled up so tightly inside of him, and he was certain Ron wouldn't understand. Harry didn't understand himself. But Hermione was smart, and knew instinctively about feelings...

So finally he swallowed his fears and slipped her a note during Transfiguration, asking if they could talk about something alone, without Ron there, and she slipped him a note back, which instructed him to meet him in the common room just after midnight. She'd agreed quickly, but there was a look of worry on Hermione's face. Harry didn't blame her. He wasn't looking forward to it, himself.

"...I know something's bothering you, Harry. Why don't you just come right out and say it? You'll feel better afterwards, I'm certain." Hermione had gotten Ron to leave them alone by explaining that Harry'd promised to help her with making some pamphlets for S.P.E.W. that night, and Ron could join if he liked! He was gone in a flash, muttering something about Hermione being 'an Over-Activist.' Harry was dead impressed--he didn't think she even noticed how dull Ron and Harry thought S.P.E.W. was.

But now Hermione was looking at him with uneasy eyes, and Harry hoped she wasn't as perceptive as she seemed. He wasn't certain he could go through with this after all. The whole thing was more confusing than it had any right to be. And how could he put it? 'Well, you see, I find myself wanking off at night, mostly picturing Snape, but often other guys as well, and--hey! Where are you going?' Grimacing, Harry clapped both hands to his face. "Harry, it CAN'T be that bad. Whatever it is, you've seen worse, haven't you?"

"Mmmph. No." Harry breathed sullenly through his fingers. "Trust me. I haven't." Only, since he was speaking from behind his hands, it sounded closer to 'Mupht me. Ai Ahven.'

"What about the time you had to face the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament? That was worse, wasn't it?"

"No." Still sullen, hidden behind hands, glasses pressing uncomfortably into his nose and cheeks.

Hermione was beginning to worry. Was it something really bad? "Worse than Cedric?" she whispered anxiously. "Worse than Sirius?"

"Umph. No..." Harry finally dragged his hands away from his face. His face was red and white from his hands being squashed up against it. "Hermione...I like someone. I really-really-like-someone-and-it's-someone...um. I don't think I should like them." For Harry, this had been repressed so long that it was a huge relief even to say this much, and the agonizing guilt and confusion he'd been feeling lessened just a little.

He was reveling in the slight cleansing feeling so much that he almost missed Hermione saying, "Erm. It isn't ME, is it?"

"WHAT?" Harry's head jerked up in shock, and he saw her eyes narrow.
He laughed a little. "Oh! No. Good Lord, of course not! Not you, I mean; never YOU." Suddenly he was being pummeled with paper, and fell off his chair in an attempt to get away. "Hey!" he shouted. "What'd I do?"

"What did you DO? You--tactless, inconsiderate, childish brat! Take this! And This! And one of these as well! I'm the sensible one, am I? I'll show you sensible! Harry James Potter, I can't believe you would say such a thing!"

"I don't remember saying ANYTHING awful enough to deserve being madly beaten round the head by a pamphlet-wielding maniac!" Quite out of the blue, he realized that he'd not had the most tactful of reactions, and there might be call for a change in stratagem. "Um. No, see; I wish I DID--that would be GOOD, because then you'd be. No, then I'D be...but I'm not...see. The thing is, Hermione; it's kind of another guy. I like. So. You know. At least you'd be a girl. Er--you are a girl, actually. But this isn't. It's a guy. That I shouldn't like." He squinted his eyes up, wondering if Voldemort were kinder than the teenage hell of his hormone-riddled body.

She stopped thrashing him long enough to consider this. Possible only Hermione, of all the people Harry knew, could have waded through this muddy swamp of his stream of thought and come out clean on the other side. She understood Harry liked guys. She understood Harry liked a certain guy. He could see her make the mental connection, and her face went white. "Oh, Harry. It isn't RON, is it?"

"Wow," he responded. "I've never seen you be wrong twice in a row before. I think I might be weak from shock. Help me back on to my seat, would you? Of course it's not Ron. That'd be...just weird. And anyway, I can be pretty oblivious, but I'm not completely oblivious! I've noticed that whenever the two of you are alone together, you come back with faces all red, and hair mussed up, and marks up and down your necks. So even if I did like Ron, why would I tell you? Did you think I called you out to cat-fight about it?"

Hermione's cheeks were very pink, and she held a hand over her mouth. "We didn't think you'd noticed," she finally admitted, chagrinned. "Oh, gosh. Harry, we're sorry. We just didn't want to say anything because we thought you'd feel, well, left out or something. And you shouldn't, really! You're our best friend, both of ours. And we both care such a lot about you."

Harry gave a crooked grin and shrugged. "I know that; it doesn't bother me. And I don't feel left out at all." He was careful not to look her straight in the eye, lest she see the lie, the tiny glimmer of hurt hidden there. "I'm happy for both of you, really. We could all use a bit more happiness, these days. And I can be happy that you're happy." It wasn't a complete lie, just a half-truth. He really WAS happy; it was just that he was also terrifically sad, too. Just lonely. He knew he wouldn't find anyone that way. Who would ever fall in love with a scarred-faced, walking target for Voldemort, after all?

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione beamed at him. "And I don't mind if you like a guy. I don't think Ron will, either. Er. Once he has time to really think it over, I mean," she amended judiciously. "Even if he's not someone I'd pick for you, I'm happy for you. And him, whoever he is. This wonderful guy you like. I mean it!"

"Yeah, but...I can't even tell him. I mean; I just can't! I don't even know for sure that I'm...that way. But even if I am, and even if he is, trust me, he won't want anything to do with me. I just can't stand trying not to think about it anymore! The harder I try not to think about it, the more difficult it is to think of anything else! God, it feels so good, just saying that much!" he threw himself down on the floor in front of the fire, letting the glow from the flames dance across his weary face.

"You know, Harry," Hermione began thoughtfully, "since it's obviously been such a great relief just to talk about it, even in general terms, maybe what you need to do is write about it. Put it in a journal, or something, just whatever you feel; whatever you'd like to say or do but can't. Let it all out, where you can see it in black and white. You'd never have to show it to anybody. You'll have the satisfaction of catharsis, without any of the risk of rejection."

"Huh." He mulled this over. "That's...really reasonable, Hermione. And unexpectedly cheering, too. I think," Harry told her slowly, as she grinned at him, "I think I would rather like to try it. I mean, maybe if I write it down enough times, enough different ways, I'll either get over it or get up the courage to do something about it." He sprang to his feet, eyes shining. As they gathered the S.P.E.W. pamphlets and got ready to say goodnight, Harry quickly leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Hermione," he said quietly. "Ron's a really lucky guy."

She gave him an impish look. "Who knows? Maybe Snape really goes for tactless, childish, inconsiderate brats. You could be just his type!" With an evil grin, she turned on her heel, and left Harry still spluttering behind as she made her way to bed.